Cersei I

The throne room was stifling, the air thick with the iron tang of old blood and the cloying aroma of Joffrey's perfumes. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching on the twisted blades of the Iron Throne, their edges gleaming like a predator's teeth. Cersei Lannister sat beside the throne on a cushioned seat draped in crimson silk, her fingers lightly resting on the armrest as if she were the one ruling, not the boy perched above her.

Joffrey lounged upon the throne like a peacock in armor, one leg slung over the other, fingers drumming against a steel pommel. His crown sat askew, and the sullen pout on his lips betrayed the temper simmering just beneath. He looks like a child playing at king, Cersei thought bitterly. But he is my son, and he is king. For now, that will have to be enough.

The scout knelt before them, his face pale and sweat-slick despite the coolness of the marble floor. His leathers were stained with mud and dried blood, his beard uneven as though he'd hacked at it with a dull blade. He had the look of a hunted thing, the whites of his eyes darting nervously to the highborn courtiers clustered along the walls.

"They're here," the man said, his voice cracking. "The Northmen. Stark's banners fly outside the city walls."

A murmur rippled through the chamber, like a breeze stirring dead leaves. Cersei stiffened, her nails digging into the silk.

"Here?" she repeated, her voice sharp enough to cut. "That's impossible. The boy is in Riverrun."

"He was, my queen," the scout stammered. "But his host marches swift as wolves. We've closed the gates, but they are starting their siege. They'll have the city surrounded by nightfall."

Joffrey snorted, his voice high and imperious. "Let them come. I'll see the Young Wolf's head on a spike before he sets one filthy boot in my city."

His words were met with a scattering of nervous laughter, though it died as quickly as it began. Even the courtiers, skilled as they were in flattery, seemed unsure of how to respond.

Cersei rose from her seat, the silk of her gown rustling as she did. She let her gaze sweep across the room, her golden hair catching the light. She felt their eyes on her and welcomed it. She was a lioness, and they were sheep who needed her strength to keep from scattering.

"The boy king," she began, her tone deliberate and measured, "marches on King's Landing with a pack of mongrels. He may think himself a conqueror, but he is a child playing at war." She let the disdain drip from her words, a calculated sneer that drew nods from the courtiers.

She turned to Joffrey, who sat on the throne with a smug expression, his fingers still toying with the jeweled pommel of his blade. "A king must rule with strength," she said, her voice softening, though her words were meant for the room as much as for him. "And strength comes from resolve, not panic."

Joffrey smirked. "I am resolved, Mother. Resolved to hang every last one of them from the gates when we win."

"When we win," she repeated, her voice smooth. "And we shall, my son. The walls of King's Landing are strong, and our stores are full. The people will endure, and our enemies will break against our defenses."

Lord Slynt, ever eager to please, stepped forward and bowed low. "Your Grace is wise. The Northmen may have numbers, but they are little more than savages. A siege is as much about patience as it is about strength, and we hold all the advantages."

Cersei inclined her head graciously. "Indeed. Their siege will fail, as all who come against us have failed before. But we must be vigilant. Double the guards on the gates and ensure that the granaries remain secure. Panic is the ally of our enemies, and we must give them no such gift."

Her words were met with murmurs of agreement, though she could see the flicker of doubt in the eyes of some. Let them doubt. It made no difference. Their fear would bind them to her, as surely as a leash bound a dog to its master.

As the courtiers began to disperse, she returned to her seat, her fingers lightly brushing the armrest. Joffrey was grinning, his arrogance plain for all to see.

"Will they try to take the walls, do you think?" he asked, his tone more curious than concerned.

"They may," Cersei said. "And they will fail. They will die in the shadow of our gates, their bodies piled high as a warning to any who would dare challenge us."

She let the confidence in her voice ring out, even as a flicker of unease whispered in the back of her mind. The Young Wolf had moved faster than anyone had expected, and wolves were cunning predators.

But she pushed the thought aside. King's Landing had endured Targaryens, Blackfyres, and rebels. It would endure a boy and his wolves.

The bells tolled the passage of time, their mournful clang reverberating through the thick stone walls of the Red Keep. Outside, the city bristled under siege, but within the castle, the day passed in uneasy quiet. The throne room was emptier than it had been in the morning, the courtiers having slithered back to their chambers or disappeared into the lower halls to whisper and scheme.

Cersei remained, her gown pooling around her like spilled wine, one hand gripping the carved arm of her seat. Joffrey had abandoned the throne for now and was stalking the hall, his jeweled dagger flicking in and out of its scabbard. The sound grated on her nerves, but she said nothing.

She could not let herself think about the news from the west. And yet, the harder she tried to push it away, the sharper it loomed in her mind. Tywin captured. Jaime captured. Even the imp, Tyrion, though his loss was no great grief. The entire line of Lannister men, dragged in chains. The wolves will have their feast.

Her hand tightened on the carved lion's head that adorned her seat. They thought themselves clever, the Starks, their banners flying high outside the walls. But we still have Sansa. The girl was their last card, her pale northern face the only thing keeping Robb Stark from smashing down the gates with his host of wolves.

They still believed they had Arya, too, she reminded herself. Another girl to dangle before them, though Arya Stark had been missing for months. Let them think the little savage still cowers in our grasp. Let them wonder what has become of their precious daughters while we bleed their banners dry.

Cersei forced herself to focus on the present. The bells had stopped ringing, but the silence was worse. It was the quiet of a battlefield before the charge, an unnatural stillness that pressed against her chest like a vice.

Joffrey's dagger scraped against its sheath, the sound sharp and grating. "They won't dare attack the Red Keep," he said, though his voice was too loud, too eager. "This castle has never fallen. Let them try, and I'll show them what it means to face a king!"

Cersei glanced at him, her lips curling into a faint smile that did not reach her eyes. "Of course, my sweet. You'll lead us to victory, as always."

He preened at the words, his chest puffing out. The boy had no idea how thin the thread was that held his crown. If Robb Stark knows the truth—if he learns Arya is gone, or that his sisters mean less to us than he thinks—he'll have us all hanging from the gates by dawn.

The faint sound of shouting filtered in from the corridors beyond. Cersei stiffened, her heart hammering. The voices grew louder, sharper, until they seemed to echo within the walls themselves.

Joffrey froze, his face pale. "What's happening?"

The doors to the throne room burst open, and a pair of Kingsguard knights stumbled inside, their white cloaks spattered with blood. One of them sagged against the wall, panting heavily, while the other pushed forward, his gauntleted hand clenched around his sword hilt.

"The Northmen," he gasped. "They're inside the city."

"What?" Cersei shot to her feet, her voice sharp as a blade. "How? The gates are sealed."

The knight shook his head. "They were opened from within, my queen. The streets are crawling with Stark's men. They've reached the Keep."

Joffrey's voice cracked as he shouted, "Who gave the order? I didn't! Mother, did you?"

"Of course not!" Cersei snapped, though her mind raced. Treachery. It could not be one of her men. Someone had betrayed them.

Before she could speak again, the doors slammed shut behind the knights, the crash reverberating through the hall. The sound of iron bars being dragged into place followed, slow and deliberate.

Cersei's breath caught. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

The knights exchanged a look, their faces grim. "It's not us," the first one said, his voice low. "The doors… they're being sealed from outside."

Joffrey let out a strangled cry, his dagger falling from his hand to clatter against the marble floor. "What do you mean sealed? Open them! Open them now!"

The second knight took a step forward. "We can't, Your Grace. The bars are outside."

Panic clawed at the edges of Cersei's mind, but she forced it down. "Send for reinforcements," she ordered, though the command felt hollow. "We'll hold the throne room until—"

"Until what?" Joffrey shrieked, his voice high with fear. "Until they break through? We're trapped!"

Cersei rounded on him, her face a mask of cold fury. "You are a king," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. "Act like one."

Joffrey recoiled, his lip quivering, but he said nothing.

The sounds of battle grew louder, echoing through the stone corridors. Cersei turned her gaze to the Iron Throne, its twisted blades gleaming in the dim light. The wolves have come, she thought. And we are the prey.

The air in the throne room was suffocating, thick with the cloying tang of fear and desperation. The courtiers had crowded toward the walls, forming uneasy clusters that whispered and murmured in hushed tones. The Iron Throne loomed over them all, its jagged edges glinting in the torchlight like the teeth of some ancient beast. Joffrey sat upon it, pale and sweating, his fingers wrapped tightly around the jeweled pommel of his dagger.

Cersei stood nearby, her hands clenched so tightly around the carved lion's head of her chair that her knuckles turned white. Myrcella and Tommen huddled by her side, their wide eyes darting from the barred doors to their brother on the throne. Myrcella was silent, her face a porcelain mask, but Tommen clung to her skirts with the quiet desperation of a child who knew far more than he should.

Varys hovered like a shadow, his soft hands folded neatly in front of him, while Petyr Baelish leaned casually against a pillar, his mocking smile unchanged. Only Janos Slynt looked as if he might do something, though the sweat pooling on his brow betrayed the fact that he was as terrified as the rest.

"They say he has a sorcerer," a voice muttered from the shadows.

Cersei's head snapped toward the sound. A plump courtier with a trembling chin was leaning toward another man, his voice pitched low but carrying in the tense silence.

"What sorcerer?" the second man asked, his brows knitting together.

"The Young Wolf," the first man hissed, glancing nervously at the doors. "They say he has a sorcerer in his service, a man who wields dark and terrible magic. It's him who brought the Starks here so quickly, they say. Magic, not marching. He sees the shadows before they are cast."

Cersei's lips curled into a sneer. "Superstitious fools," she muttered under her breath. "The North has no sorcerers. They barely have roads."

But the words lingered, clawing at the edges of her mind.

The sound of splintering wood echoed through the hall, cutting off the whispered conversation. The barred doors shook violently, then again, louder this time, as if some great beast were ramming its head against them.

"They're here," someone whispered.

The words sent a ripple of panic through the room. The courtiers shrank further into the shadows, while the Kingsguard drew their swords. Meryn Trant barked orders, though his voice quavered. Boros Blount shifted uneasily, his hand trembling on the hilt of his blade.

The doors burst inward with a deafening crash, the iron bars snapping like twigs. Smoke and the stench of blood poured in with the Northmen. They were clad in mail and furs, their faces shadowed beneath their helms, and their banners bore the snarling direwolf of Stark. At their head stood Robb Stark himself, his expression grim as death.

Beside him was a man who could only be the sorcerer. He was tall, although short compared to most of the Northman, perhaps a couple of inches above Robb, but he was massive. His corpulent frame made an armored Robb appear slender by comparison. The sorcerer's round face was flushed with a sickly pallor, his piercing blue eyes gleaming with an eerie light beneath the hood of his dark robes. He stood nearly as tall as a man in full armor, though he was encased not in steel, but in layers of thick, dark fabric that swelled about him like a storm cloud. A long staff, as gnarled and twisted as a tree root, was gripped in his heavy hand.

The courtiers muttered, some crossed themselves, while others averted their gazes, too terrified to look upon the man's unsettling presence.

Joffrey leapt to his feet, his dagger held high. "Stay back!" he shrieked, his voice rising to a panicked pitch. "I'll kill her! I swear it!"

Cersei turned sharply, her eyes darting to where Sansa Stark stood, pale and trembling, between two Kingsguard.

"Bring her here!" Joffrey commanded.

The girl was shoved forward, stumbling to her knees before the throne. Robb Stark's blue eyes fixed on her, then rose to meet Joffrey's.

"Step any closer, and she dies!" Joffrey snarled, his dagger hovering over Sansa's throat. "Do you hear me, Stark? One step!"

The Northmen hesitated, their advance slowing. Cersei felt a flicker of satisfaction at their uncertainty, but it was snuffed out as Robb took another step forward.

"Petyr!" Joffrey barked. "Kill her! Kill her now!"

Baelish's smirk faltered for a moment. His eyes darted to Cersei, then to Sansa, then back to Joffrey.

"Your Grace," he began, his tone soothing, "perhaps—"

"Kill her!" Joffrey screamed, his face a mask of fury.

Petyr's hand twitched toward the dagger at his belt. For one agonizing moment, Cersei thought he would obey. But then his hand dropped to his side, and he stepped back.

"No," he said softly.

"What?" Joffrey's voice cracked with disbelief.

"No, Your Grace," Petyr repeated, his tone as smooth as silk. "I believe I shall sit this one out."

Before Joffrey could react, the Northmen surged forward. The Kingsguard tried to hold them, but it was like trying to stop the tide. Meryn Trant fell first, his throat opened from ear to ear. Boros Blount was dragged from his feet and gutted where he stood. Preston Greenfield fought valiantly, but he was overwhelmed, his white cloak stained red as he crumpled to the floor.

Cersei screamed as rough hands seized her arms, dragging her back toward the shadows. She struggled, but her captors held firm.

"Mother!" Tommen cried, his voice high and desperate.

She twisted in their grip, her eyes locking on her children. Joffrey was yanked from the throne, his crown toppling to the marble floor, its golden gleam now sullied by the dust of the Red Keep. His face, usually so pale and proud, was twisted in rage and fear. Myrcella stood frozen beside him, her once-perfect features now ashen, her lip trembling as she tried to hold herself together. Tommen, ever the innocent, his small face streaked with tears, clung to Myrcella as if she were the only thing keeping him tethered to his world.

Cersei's heart cracked at the sight of them, so helpless, so broken. But the cruelest sight of all was Robb Stark's sorcerer. As she was dragged away, she saw his piercing blue eyes fix on Joffrey and Myrcella, a sly, mocking smirk curling at the corner of his lips. He seemed to savor their terror, like a man enjoying a feast that had only just begun.

The last thing Cersei saw before she was hauled out of the room was her children, standing together in chains—Joffrey's hands bound at his sides, his eyes wide with helpless fury; Myrcella's pale hands clasped tightly together in front of her, her eyes cast down, as if the weight of her failure was too much to bear; Tommen, looking up at her with his wide, innocent gaze, his eyes pleading with her to somehow fix this, to save them all.

The days dragged on like the slow, torturous crawl of a wound that refused to bleed out. Time had become a prison unto itself, the passing hours stretching longer than Cersei could bear, each one heavy with the weight of uncertainty. Her room in the Red Keep had once been a sanctuary, a place of comfort and control, but now it felt like a tomb—a place of suffocating confinement, the walls pressing closer with every breath.

Thrice a day, a servant would bring her food, but they never spoke. They entered with their heads lowered, their eyes avoiding hers as if she were some filthy thing, too far removed from her former station to merit even a single word. The food was always simple, bland, and tasteless, and yet, Cersei had no appetite. Her stomach churned with fear and anxiety, the thought of eating something that might have been tampered with was enough to make her gag. It was a petty, paranoid thought, but when you had nothing left but your own life to hold onto, even the smallest things could seem like a threat.

It had been a week—seven agonizing, drawn-out days of silence. Not a word had come from the outside world. The doors were locked, the windows shut tight, and the air felt stale, as though the very room itself were suffocating her. She had once been the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the most powerful woman in Westeros. Now, she was nothing. A prisoner, forgotten, abandoned by all.

Her mind spun in endless circles of dread and speculation. She feared for her children—Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen. They had been dragged away, bound and helpless. She could still hear Joffrey's screams echoing in her mind, the way his eyes had burned with fury and terror as they dragged him from the throne. He had been a king, and now he was a prisoner—just like her. What would they do to him? What would they do to all of them? She couldn't shake the vision of their bodies hanging from the walls of the city, their faces twisted in death. They would die. She was certain of it. Robb Stark would not spare them. He would take their heads, one by one, and there would be nothing left of them but their cold, lifeless eyes staring up at her from the stones.

Myrcella was fragile, too innocent for this world, too naïve to survive the brutal whims of men like Robb Stark. And Tommen—sweet, gentle Tommen. He had always been so small, so fragile. What would become of him? The thought of her children being mutilated, their innocence stripped away in some dark, nameless cell, twisted her gut into knots. She would never see them again. They would die. And she would never be there to protect them. The cruel irony was that she had always been so protective of them, always so determined to keep them safe. And now, in the moment when they needed her most, she had failed them. She was nothing. Just another prisoner, another woman lost to the cruelty of fate.

And then there was the fear of what might happen to her. They would not kill her quickly. No, that was not the way of men like Robb Stark. She would be sold, sold like a broodmare to some noble house, used to produce more heirs to some distant lord's name. She would be nothing more than a bedslave, a woman to be bedded and discarded at the whim of some distant, faceless man. She had seen it happen before, heard whispers in the halls of Casterly Rock, seen the fate of the women who were traded like cattle for political alliances. She was a queen, a lioness, and yet here she was, trapped in this room, unable to do a damn thing to protect herself. The thought of being defiled, of being reduced to nothing more than an object to be used, made her stomach churn. She had never been weak, never been anyone's pawn. And yet, now she was nothing more than a prisoner, vulnerable to whatever fate awaited her.

The possibility of torture loomed over her like a dark cloud. They would break her. Robb Stark's sorcerer, that monstrous, bloated man, had shown her the depths of cruelty that men like him could stoop to. His cold, piercing blue eyes flashed in her mind, as though they were etched into her soul. His power, his magic—she could almost feel it, like a weight pressing on her chest, suffocating her. He would not let her die easily. No, he would make her suffer. He would twist her, bend her to his will, and when she could no longer fight, when she was broken, then he would end her. She would scream, beg for mercy, and they would laugh. It was inevitable. She could feel it in the marrow of her bones. Her life would end in pain. Her death would be long, slow, and agonizing.

And then there was the fear of being left alone forever. She couldn't bear the thought of it. Her room had become a prison, the walls closing in on her, suffocating her with their silence. The lack of news, the endless, endless hours of solitude—every second felt like a small eternity. If they did not kill her, if they did not sell her, they would leave her here to rot. She would be nothing. A forgotten queen, a forgotten woman, locked away in this cell, alone with her thoughts and nothing else. The very idea was enough to send shivers down her spine.

What would become of her? Would they leave her to waste away, like some discarded object? Would she be forgotten, her name erased from history, her children's names forgotten too? The thought made her feel as if she were already dead, as though her life had already slipped away into the darkness, a shadow that no one would remember.

She pressed her hand against the cold stone wall, her fingers trembling. The pain was real, sharp, and immediate. It was the only thing that told her she was still alive, still here. But for how much longer?

The door creaked open, and for a brief moment, Cersei's heart leapt. Was it news? Was it someone coming to tell her of her family's fate, to end her misery with a single word? But no. It was only the servant, his face averted, his hands trembling as he set the tray of food on the small table by the window.

No words. No news. No hope.

Just silence.

Cersei's mind swirled with dread, a constant ache gnawing at the edges of her thoughts. The silence in her small room felt suffocating, as though the walls themselves were closing in. She had wept, her tears now dried and leaving her skin feeling tight, her heart hollow. With every passing day, the emptiness grew.

Her children. Her family. Where were they? What had become of them? The unanswered questions gnawed at her, each one more bitter than the last. She could not bear the thought of them being slaughtered, not her children, not Joffrey. And yet, she feared the worst.

The servants brought her food thrice a day, their eyes averted, their faces stone-cold masks. They never spoke to her, never offered a word of comfort or a scrap of information. The silence pressed harder as the days wore on. She could not tell if they were afraid of her or if they simply had no words left to say.

Her stomach growled as the familiar rhythm of footsteps echoed down the hall. The door creaked open, and Cersei tensed, half-expecting another tray of food, another empty gesture. But instead, it was him.

The sorcerer.

He walked in with a slow, deliberate stride, his large frame filling the doorway like a shadow. A man of enormous girth, his robes were dark, their fabric rich but simple, hanging loosely around his thick torso. His black hair hung in shaggy curls, and his face seemed caught somewhere between the years of youth and the burdens of age. His piercing blue eyes met hers with an unsettling calm, the kind of stillness that only comes from a deep and unsettling knowledge of the world. His beard was full and wild, a striking contrast to his otherwise composed demeanor.

Cersei's heart skipped a beat, a flare of hatred igniting in her chest. She had never seen him before, but she recognized the power in his presence. He was not of her world, nor of her making. He was a creature of shadow and fire, a strange and dangerous thing.

He placed a tray of food before her, his thick hands moving with a deliberateness that struck her as unnerving. He sat beside her on the small couch, settling his massive weight into the cushions with a casual ease. His eyes never left her.

"I have brought your meal," he said, his voice calm, soft, yet with an undercurrent of something she could not place. He leaned back, crossing his legs with a gentle sigh. "I thought it was time we talked."

Cersei stared at him, her mouth pressed into a tight, furious line. Her eyes narrowed. "You," she spat, "what is it you want?"

The sorcerer—this man who had dared to enter her room, to speak with her, to touch her life with his filthy presence—smiled faintly, the corners of his lips twitching upwards as though he found something deeply amusing in her anger.

"You don't know who I am," he observed with a knowing glint in his blue eyes, watching her carefully as though he could read every word that danced across her face. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Bryan."

Cersei's throat tightened with fury and disbelief. Bryan. That name meant nothing to her, not yet. She wanted to scream, wanted to hurl something at him, but her body remained motionless, tense, full of hatred that couldn't find its release.

"I don't care who you are," she snapped, her voice rough with venom. "Leave me at once."

Bryan did not move. He only chuckled, the sound deep and amused, almost as if he found her disdain as absurd as the situation itself. He reached for the food, his hands thick but sure, and began tearing into it with the kind of casualness that made Cersei's skin crawl.

"You haven't eaten well," he remarked in a tone that seemed almost apologetic. "I thought you might be hungry. You should eat."

Cersei's gaze flicked to the tray of food, the rich smells of bread, cheese, and roasted meat mixing in the air. She had eaten little in days, her hunger gnawing at her, but it made her stomach turn to think that this... creature might have poisoned it. She stiffened, her voice cold and sharp.

"You think I'd trust you to feed me?" she hissed, her hands curling into fists. "This food could be poisoned. You want to watch me die."

Bryan's laugh was low, deep, and almost indulgent. He did not flinch at her accusation. Instead, he looked at her with an almost pitying smile.

"I assure you," he said, "it is not poisoned. You haven't been eating enough, Lady Cersei. That's not good. Not for you, not for anyone."

"Lady Cersei?" Her voice was harsh. "I am Queen Cersei Lannister. Once I ruled the Seven Kingdoms. I will rule again. Do you hear me?"

Bryan's smile faltered for a moment, but it was not in mockery. It was the same calm, patient smile, as if she were a child throwing a tantrum.

"You are not the Queen anymore, Cersei," he said softly, the words cutting deeper than any sword. "Robert Baratheon is dead. Your son, Joffrey, is no longer king. Robb Stark has called for a Great Council to decide the next ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."

Cersei felt her chest tighten, her pulse quicken. She could feel the walls closing in once more, her breathing becoming shallow as the weight of his words hit her. Her mind reeled—Joffrey dethroned? Robb Stark, a lord of the North, calling the shots? It was unimaginable, and yet, it was happening.

Her fingers twitched, but she said nothing, her eyes burning with a fierce, almost manic defiance.

Bryan's eyes softened, and for a moment, there was something almost... human about him. Almost.

"I'm not here to harm you, Cersei," he said, his voice quiet. "I only came to speak with you. To make sure you eat. To remind you that you're not alone in this. Not yet, at least."

Cersei turned away, her jaw clenched tightly, unwilling to look at him any longer. She would not give him the satisfaction. She would not give him the power to break her.

But hunger gnawed at her—terribly, cruelly. She had not eaten much in days, the emptiness inside her growing sharper with every passing hour. Bryan ate with casual ease, tearing into the food as if it were nothing more than sustenance.

Her stomach growled again, louder this time, betraying her pride. She cast a quick glance at the food. Just a bite. It would quiet the hunger. Just one bite...

Cursing herself for the weakness, she reached for the bread. At first, she chewed slowly, trying to keep her composure, but soon, her body betrayed her. She ate quickly, greedily, as though the very act of filling her stomach would take away some of the pain that had festered in her heart. Her hunger was a beast, a gnawing creature that tore at her insides until there was nothing left but raw desperation.

Bryan watched her, his expression unreadable.

"Slow down, Cersei," he said quietly. "It's dangerous to eat too quickly when you've gone without food for so long. You'll make yourself sick."

Her throat tightened, but she ignored his advice. She couldn't stop now. She was starving.

"You will not be poisoned," Bryan promised, his tone reassuring. "Not while I'm here."

Cersei pushed the last bit of food into her mouth, her stomach aching with the fullness of it, yet she ate mechanically, her mind far away. She could feel Bryan's eyes on her the entire time, watching her like some kind of patient, like a dog that needed to be fed so it wouldn't die. She loathed him for it. Every movement of his, every word, was like a weight on her chest. It was as though he found some kind of sick pleasure in forcing her to acknowledge her weakness. His kindness was an insult. She would rather starve than be treated like this.

Bryan waited patiently, his gaze calm, unbothered by her silent fury. When she finished, he gently cleared his throat. "I'll bring your food once a day," he said in his soft, careful voice. "I'll stay to eat with you, so you know it's safe. You don't need to worry."

Cersei's fingers tightened into fists, nails digging into her palms. The offer sounded so condescending, so utterly beneath her. "I don't need you to babysit me," she spat, her voice sharp, though the words didn't have the power she wished they did. "Leave me be."

But Bryan, ever the patient one, smiled a little, as though he didn't hear the venom in her tone. "I'm just here to help, my lady. To make sure you are taken care of."

Her teeth ground together as she watched him gather his things, his bulk moving with ease despite the size of him. He didn't even seem to mind her words, as if he expected her anger. It only stoked the flames within her.

"I don't need your help," she hissed through clenched teeth. "You're just here to gloat, to make me feel small."

Bryan's smile didn't falter. "I'll bring your meal at the same time each day. And we can talk then. I won't leave you alone, not unless you wish it. I understand that silence must be difficult for someone like you."

The kindness in his voice made her skin crawl. She wanted to scream at him, to curse him until he bled, but it wouldn't make any difference. He wasn't afraid of her. He wasn't afraid of anything.

Cersei's fingers shook as she sat at the window, her heart racing in her chest, the gnawing emptiness in her gut growing. She couldn't escape the terror that gripped her. The weight of it pressed down harder with every passing second, the thought of her children, her family, all of them... She didn't know what was happening to them.

Her mouth went dry. A bitter taste rose in the back of her throat as her mind raced with possibilities—none of them kind. She couldn't bear it anymore.

"Bryan," she said, her voice hoarse with the desperate edge of a woman who had reached the end of her tether. "Please, wait. I—I need to know. What happened to my children? My family?"

Bryan's large form paused at the door, and for a moment, his gaze softened. The warmth in his eyes was maddening to her, but she didn't care. She needed answers, needed something to hold onto, even if it was a lie.

"Joffrey, Tommen, Jaime, and Tywin have all been arrested," Bryan said slowly, his deep voice like a balm to her raw nerves. "They are alive, though imprisoned in the Red Keep's cells."

She sagged with relief, a shudder of breath escaping her lips. Alive. They were alive. But that was not enough. "And Myrcella? Why didn't you mention her?" she pressed quickly, the question burning on her tongue.

Bryan's gaze darkened, and for a moment, his eyes seemed to see through her, the depth of his knowledge unsettling. "Your daughter is under house arrest, as you are. She remains within the Red Keep, but she has not been harmed. I have been tasked with continuing her education until further notice."

A flicker of hope ignited inside her, but it was a fragile thing, easily extinguished. Still, she clung to it. "Please, Bryan. Keep them safe. You must. They'll—someone will kill them if you don't. They're children, they don't deserve this." Her voice broke on the last words, and she hated herself for the weakness. But she couldn't stop it. The fear for her children felt like a blade, constantly pressing against her ribs, threatening to tear her apart.

Bryan's gaze softened again, his posture relaxing. It made him seem so… ordinary, despite his power. He gave her a slight bow, his words as calm and assured as ever. "I will keep them safe, Cersei. I swear it. No one will harm them while I live. I'll protect Myrcella, as I promised, even if it costs me everything."

She had nothing to say to that, nothing to feel but a strange mix of gratitude and suspicion. Why would he care so much?

He straightened, then gave her a small, polite nod. "I will leave you now. But remember, I am here to help. You'll see me again soon."

Cersei didn't answer. She couldn't find the words. The silence stretched between them, the air thick with unspoken thoughts.

Then, as if nothing had changed, Bryan left the room, his footsteps muffled by the thick stone of the Red Keep.

Once the door clicked shut behind him, Cersei was once again left in that awful silence, the cold grip of fear taking hold of her heart once more. She turned, pacing the length of her room, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts.

What is he? She thought of Bryan. What does he want?

He was so polite, so damn calm. She could hardly stand it. It was as though he didn't even care that she hated him, that she resented everything about him. But then, there was something in his voice—something in the way he spoke about her children. It was as if he really did care. But why? What was his angle?

Does he want something from me? She couldn't help but think it. He was a sorcerer, a man who spoke of magic with the same ease as breathing, a man with eyes that seemed to see through every façade. Surely, someone like him had ambition. Has he been granted a lordship? Is that why he is here? She could see it now, his fat hands on the reins of power. She could see him scheming, offering himself as some kind of protector, a great benefactor to her family.

But then the thought came unbidden: Does he want me?

The idea made her stomach churn. She thought of his fat belly, his beady blue eyes, his great beard that looked like a wild thing clinging to his face. He was nothing like the men she'd taken to her bed in the past, men who had strength, who were… attractive. Bryan was a man she could not look at without feeling disgusted. Yet, the thought lingered.

He had been too polite. Too patient. And with that patience came the implication that he had plans. Ambitions. If he were in the north, he might be poor, but he could always be bought, could he not? Some lord in need of a wife, some man looking for a noble name to attach to his line. He might find Myrcella a perfect prize. Her mind screamed he could be looking for something else.

Cersei let the thought sit there in her mind for a moment, then rejected it. She was the Queen. She was Cersei Lannister. No man would ever have her that way. Certainly, not a sorcerer who looks like he uses his spells on his appetite instead of his ambitions.

Her heart, however, did not calm. What if he's in love with me? The idea seemed absurd, but it wouldn't leave her. There was something about him, something about the way he looked at her, something hidden beneath that implacable kindness. She would not let it get to her. It was a foolish thought, a dangerous thought, a thought that would only weaken her.

Cersei walked to the window and peered out into the empty courtyard, trying to shake away the lingering unease. But the fear remained. Her family was at the mercy of those who had imprisoned her. And Bryan? She wasn't sure if he was an ally, a threat, or something else entirely.